


In A Beautiful Place Out In The Country

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: One Shot, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-29
Updated: 2005-12-29
Packaged: 2019-01-19 14:08:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12411783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: The truth unfolds, extracts itself from the morass of your memory, lost and gained, extends its wings to the edges of your consciousness.





	In A Beautiful Place Out In The Country

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

**Title:** In A Beautiful Place Out In The Country [ I / I ]  
 **Author:** [carondelet](http://unknowableroom.org/profile/carondelet) / [carondelet11](http://carondelet11.livejournal.com)  
 **Character(s) / Pairing:** James Potter; James and Lily Potter referred to  
 **Rating:** R (adult situations)  
 **Warning:** Character death(s)  
 **Notes:** this was originally written for the [Dementor’s Kiss](http://darkones.livejournal.com/90199.html) Challenge for the [darkones](http://darkones.livejournal.com) LiveJournal community, but then I lost the thread, as it were. This is not necessarily canonical, and that is not to say that it is any good, but it's the first bit of HP fanfic I've written in a while.  
 **Challenge Phobia:** _Ouranophobia or Uranophobia — fear of heaven_  
 **Footnotes in Reverse** : 1 The King James Bible — The First Epistle of Paul the Apostle to Timothy 6:7; 2 The Book of Common Prayer, The Burial of the Dead, First Anthem; 3 The King James Bible — Ecclesiastes 5:19 and 20  
 **Word Count:** 2,552  
 **Spoilers:** Books 1-6  
 **Summary:** The truth unfolds, extracts itself from the morass of your memory, lost and gained, extends its wings to the edges of your consciousness.  
 **Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters, settings, and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling as published by, including and not limited, to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The use of these characters and settings is for entertainment purposes only; no infringement is intended or should be inferred.

 

**_____________________________________**

**IN A BEAUTIFUL PLACE OUT IN THE COUNTRY**

[] TRINITY MURDERER, NOTHING NEW

**_____________________________________**

**§ wolf in the breast §**

**There was a** sound. It was sharp, it was brittle, it was thin, it was terrible, it was… pain.

It was your pain. Yours.

It was you.

You were screaming.

And then you were done.

It’s not supposed to be this way, now, is it?

You hadn’t heard the incantation. You hadn’t even really heard the front door opening. You had felt the magic of the spell. _Alohomora._ That was all that it took. No, no, no, it wasn’t supposed to be that way. Padfoot didn’t need to unlock the door. He barely even bothered with knocking. Wormtail didn’t have a need to unlock the door, though he always rapped his knuckles against the frame and stood meekly upon the doorstep. Even Moony didn’t have to unlock the door, not even after —

He was standing in your foyer. Him, gods, **HIM** , standing in your foyer, your house, looking up at you, looking up with that face, the skin pulled so taut it was translucent, so far removed from warmth and sunshine it was as faded as —

He was standing in your house. He was looking up at you.

You spun around, wand already in hand, flinging hexes behind you, listening to the banisters on the staircase splinter and break as you ran toward your bedroom.

She was standing in the hallway, one hand against the wall, just outside of your bedroom, her green eyes wide, understanding. You ran, together, toward the nursery. There was no time, not enough time, never enough time… you embraced your wife, briefly, so briefly, told her to stay there in the nursery with Harry, told her to lock the door, bolt the door, charm the door, and then you ran out to face him.

You should have been the one to charm the door. Lily was strongest in Potions; you were the one who was the better at charms. Not her. Gods, not her.

It was supposed to have been you.

Could have been.

Should have been.

But it wasn’t.

You.

**§ fifty-fifty §**

**It was supposed** to be faster than this. Wasn’t it? Or had the curse already done its work and you were… no, that didn’t seem quite right, either.

It’s not as though you had been poorly matched. You had faced Voldemort before and come out smelling like roses as Sirius had said. You wouldn’t have rated yourself as evenly matched with him, but you had and you knew you could still give him what for, as it were. It was just that he, his damned, contemptible presence in your house… when he told you how he had come to find you and Lily and Harry…

Words can kill after all.

You wonder if part of your heart hadn’t died before he struck you with _Avada Kevadra_.

Peter… never Peter?

Peter Pettigrew? Your Wormtail? Your mate? Your Marauder? He wasn’t the secret keeper. He wasn’t the one. It was — and then, oh gods, and then is when you see it all. The truth unfolds, extracts itself from the morass of your memory, lost and gained, extending its wings to the edges of your consciousness.

It hadn’t been Remus who had been the weak one. His lycanthropy had not made him into a liability. Remus, dear, sweet, swotty Remus, it wasn’t him.

Sirius had been hunted, stalked, and, being a Black, being the blood kin of some of the Death Eaters, had become afraid. He was the key to the Fidelus Charm and he was afraid. So he turned to Peter. He turned to little Peter Pettigrew, your friend, and he had Peter hold the secret to your location. After all, who would suspect Peter?

Gods, it had been him all along, hadn’t it?

It’s supposed to be faster than this, you are sure of it.

The encounter had ended all too quickly. It took seconds / it took moments. You had managed to land _Sectussempra_ on the vile figure ascending the staircase, coming toward you. You made a bit of a mess. You hoped that Lily wouldn’t be too terribly cross with you, staining the walls and using one of Snivellus’ creations.

You watched the blood trailing down the magnolia paint. You wondered how it was that Voldemort still had red blood. It strikes you as curious, this appearance of mortality.

Lily was best at Potions. You were better at charms and hexes.

He watched you watch the blood on the walls, his blood, and he continued to speak to you in that terrible fey voice. He told you how easy it had been for him to turn Peter, how frightened Peter was, how willing Peter was to tell him of your whereabouts.

You think that you ought to be dead by now. It should never take this long.

You wonder if Voldemort hasn’t planned on talking you to death instead.

**§ so, how’s your girl? §**

**He’s going upstairs** now. He’s finished taunting you. No use in mocking a dead man. He’s gone upstairs to kill your wife and son.

You should have charmed the door; you are better at charms and hexes than Lily.

Oh, your Lily, your blossom, that small flower that had bloomed inside of your heart the first you saw her. The now withering flower that she gave to you. You had been able to believe strongly enough in the idea of you and her, of the both of you, together. For years you had believed enough in your future for the both of you.

You are not so afraid anymore...

You were happy meeting her, although she had been less than enchanted with you. Once Lily had come to love you, she became proud of even the simplest things, even proud of your holding hands.

He is going upstairs. He is going to kill her.

You can just see the hems of his robes, see them as they slip further and further away from view. You can’t look your head to follow him. If you could even move that much, you would hex him to Muggle hell.

He’s going to kill your Lily.

She, who came to know everything about you. That you laughed more during sad times to hide the pain you felt inside. She would gently hug you without saying a word. Her warm embrace made your injured heart feel as though she were opening a door that had been fixed, frozen in ice.

You had been happy meeting her.

And now Voldemort was going to kill her.

He was taking an awfully, painfully long time to ascend the stairs. Perhaps you had hurt him more than you had thought.

Would Lily think to use _Sectussempra_ against him? No, not her, never her. She was strong, but she wasn’t… not like that. But for Harry’s sake?

He was going to take her from you. The one, the only one with whom you could ever fully share your loneliness. You see the sickening green flare, you hear the scream and the dull thud on the floorboards above you, and you know that you are separated from her now. Yet, somehow, you still feel connected to her.

You know that you will see your Lily again soon.

He didn’t strike you with _Avada Kevadra_ , did he. It was something else. Something worse. Something that only **he** would know. Something that only **he** would enjoy. The sick bastard.

There wasn’t even time enough to say thank you to your wife.

**§ the sound of houses falling §**

**You couldn’t even** keep that simple little promise...

Something is happening now.

A wind is blowing through the house like that day, the one where you nearly lost the game to Slytherin. It was a cold, sharp wind that day as well. One of those winds that cuts right through you, as the saying goes, even though that was hyperbole in the extreme. Strange, the things that one remembers.

You know that you and Lily and now surely Harry will meet again, very soon. Your little Harry…

You wonder where it is you will find yourself. The place beyond this world, what comes next, those promised Elysian fields far and away from Voldemort’s blood slowly drying on your painted walls.

The tears have long since stopped their trickle down your bruised cheeks.

You wonder where it might be that Lily and Harry will be waiting for you.

You hope that their deaths were quicker than yours. You heard Lily scream, but you wish, you are so desperate that you pray, that her pain was fleeting and that she died as soon as her scream had ended. Kindness is also cruelty, sometimes, but you know the answer without having to search for it. They died while you were meant to survive long enough to know.

Something is about to begin.

You must be dying now. You have to be dying now. There is no more you, now, not without Lily and Harry. There is no more tomorrow. You can’t live on alone.

You can still feel her so close to you. Perhaps that is her love.

You are no longer crying. You know how much pain tears can bring. If only you could see your wife smile again, things would have some sort of meaning.

The wind continues to howl, whipping through the house, sending papers and books flying.

The colour of the house changes little by little. The greys and browns and lime of decay. Your pains have again increased by one. It wasn’t enough to take your wife and child before your ears, but now the bastard will send your home tumbling down around you?

Where in the hell is Voldemort? Where did he go? Did he slip by when you weren’t looking? Impossible, impossible, you can’t turn your head from the stair; you can’t close your eyes. It’s just as well; that terrible wind has stopped and you can see now, for what good it will do you.

Isn’t it funny that it only took an instant to render something that grows a little at a time? Isn’t it funny that it only took no more than fifteen minutes, judging by the clock upon the mantle, for Voldemort to destroy that feeling, the feeling called love?

No, it’s not that funny.

It’s not that funny at all.

You see plaster dust trickle from the ceiling, hear the joists shifting, the timber creaking, and you wish that you could cry. Is he doing something else to them now? Is he making a mockery of their deaths?

Why didn’t you die?

**§ fiction §**

**Lily grew up** in the Muggle world. For the first ten years of her life, her parents took her and her sister to a place called Church to learn about a paradise called Heaven. You always wanted to know what kind of a place it was, but you were too afraid to ask Lily. You didn’t want to sound foolish with your questions. Was it as big as the world was wide? Was it small, like the reach of Godric’s Hollow? Was it something that was tactile? Could it be felt, literally? You and your mates had the odd conversation about it, but nothing ever too serious. You’d heard Heaven being described as being different places and things by different people. Fartbottom said that Heaven is a place where nothing ever happened. You don’t think you could handle a place quite like that. Sirius, your dear Sirius, told you that Heaven was a place filled with beings called angels who had wings ( _wicked_ , he said) and wore robes ( _like wizards_ , he said) and played harps ( _sounds a bit naff_ , he said, _like some poofters at a bloody recital_ ). Remus, oh Remus, you would never forgive yourself, Remus told you that in Heaven, people believe ( _because_ , he said, _there is no proof that Heaven exists. It’s merely a religious concept_ ) that when you get there you forget about your life here, with the living.

You don’t want that.

You don’t want to go to Heaven if when you’re there you don’t remember Lily. If you don’t remember Harry.

If neither of them remember you.

The sound, so terrible now it feels like a great reaching back, a rending, as the house shudders and trembles and threatens to break clean down the middle. The sound, signalling that it is time for you to go.

Do you have to go?

You don’t want to leave them.

You don’t want to die.

You don’t want their memories to fade away into oblivion. What is the point of Heaven being a paradise if you don’t know the joys and the loves you’ve had in your life? What’s the sodding point of it?

It can’t be possible. Heaven can’t be that kind of a place. Stupid Muggles got it all wrong. How could it be that you would forget them, that they would forget you? Just one look into Lily’s eyes would have your feelings finding their way into her heart without you needing to speak a word, you know this. For ten years, at least, Lily believed in Heaven, and a girl like Lily would not have believed in frivolous, foolish things. She could never have believed in a place where nothing happened, or where bloody great owl like people faffed about plucking strings, or where one would forget everyone and everything that brought one joy in the mortal world.

Not your Lily. Not her.

She would never go to a place like that…

  
_We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out._ 1

Why did she have to go on ahead of you? Why do you have to go there alone?

You hear a roar above you. You’re not certain what it is, but you know that you are closer to being reunited with Lily and Harry. The house groans, almost as if in grief.

  
_In the midst of life we are in death._ 2

You think you hear a baby’s keening.

You can close your eyes now. You shut them tightly and clench your hands into fists, hands that are sticky now, and you fight with your soul to comprehend every word that once was read. In the book that Lily kept on the uppermost shelf of the pantry, tucked behind the tea bags, the book that she had since childhood and still retained, despite everything she learned at Hogwarts.

  
_Every man also to whom God hath given riches and wealth, and hath given him power to eat thereof, and to take his portion, and to rejoice in his labour; this is the gift of God. For he shall not much remember the days of his life; because God answereth him in the joy of his heart._ 3

What does that mean?

All you can do is hope that you and Lily and Harry will again find one another. All you can do is hope that you will all remember your love. Even if a tomorrow that nobody knows of with any certainty is waiting for you, you have to let go and believe. You can stop fighting now. You can feel a hand slip into yours, smooth, cool, and you intertwine her fingers with yours.

_It’s all right, James. You can stop now. I’ll hold your hand. And we’ll keep on walking together. Forever._

And ever. Amen.

_James, it’s time to let go._

You’re smiling as the support beam above you cracks and drops, breaking your legs. You’d be laughing as well, laughing at the sound that the upstairs landing makes as it collapses across your back. It’s a good thing that you’re already dead. You close your hand even tighter around Lily’s as the house slips away from you.

It figures that it would be easier for you to believe in a ghost than to believe in Heaven.

 

**”**


End file.
